


Tromsø

by pentapus



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 20:53:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3461633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentapus/pseuds/pentapus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jane notices something’s not right when Darcy is on the plane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tromsø

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inkvoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkvoices/gifts).



Jane notices something’s not right when Darcy is on the plane.

Jane's just done the customs dance in Oslo -- lines, luggage, more lines -- and she's about 6 hours past when her body wants to be asleep. She doesn’t even notice that her seatmate is smiling at her until she hears, "Hiii, Jane," in Darcy's lethargic drawl.

"What -- what are you doing here?" Jane is fighting with the bundle on her lap, trying to disentangle her jacket from her purse and her purse from her kiosk sack of chips and bottled water. She shoves it all under the seat in front of her with a good, solid kick.

"Well, I'm still unemployed because: poli sci major," Darcy tilts her head, eyes closing briefly like a diva accepting flattery, "but volunteering for broke socialist theater groups isn't radical enough to make S.H.I.E.L.D. revoke my security clearance, so -- I'm like, the only option you've got really."

"You're my RA," Jane says.

"Yesiree, Bob." Darcy snaps open a resealable bag on her lap, and Jane has to pull back from the smell of peppered jerky.

"O-kay," says Jane and rests her forehead against the cool window.

The landscape under the plane is black as pitch, broken only by small dotted slivers of orange light. These bright hints of human settlement curve as they briefly trace out the shape of rivers, valleys, coastlines. Northern Norway is not a populous place, and Jane has to open her guidebook again to confirm that polar bears are not found near Tromsø. The 'stand up and wave your arms to appear large' defense isn't very impressive when Jane tries it. She still buys t-shirts in the children’s section.

Tromsø is small as cities go, small enough that Jane almost sleeps through her stop on the 'flybussen' from the airport. Her hotel room is small and internal with a window that faces another wing of the hotel. Jane opens her hands and lets her bags hit the floor. Tucked away into the middle of the building, the room feels like hidden nook where she can wrap herself up in the bed and disappear until morning.

Darcy comes to get her in the morning. 

She’s carrying a StarkTab and a sandwich made out of a dinner roll and smoked salmon. Jane suspects Darcy's sandwich is telling her the hotel has a breakfast buffet. Her stomach rumbles. She should check that out.

"Oh," Darcy says, "I'm also your S.H.I.E.L.D. liaison."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. liaison," Jane says. She runs a hand through her hair. She didn’t wash her hair before collapsing, just a quick shower to wash off the worst of the travel sweat, and the accumulated grease and tangles are giving her hair a three-dimensionality it doesn’t usually possess. 

"Yeah, it's their project, obviously, right? Oh." Darcy drops a slim black box with blinking blue LEDS along one end onto the table and presses a button with the hand not holding breakfast.

"Darcy – "

The box beeps and flashes green. 

"Ok, we're clear.” Darcy gives the box a satisfied pat. “Anyway, obviously, S.H.I.E.L.D. is a little more uptight than they said about you 'continuing your research' – though still less uptight than say, when they resorted to ipod stealing – so, bam, right? They bring you and _this_ unemployed lib arts major to some creepy remote lab because we're cheap and we already signed the papers." 

Darcy takes a bite of her sandwich, eyes closing in appreciation. _Norwegians have good fish, don't they?_ Jane thinks longingly. Darcy wipes her mouth with the corner of her hand, and adds, "It's not so bad. We have an expense account." She flips up a shining silver card, pointing at a small gold square lodged in one end. "It's even got a thing."

Jane isn’t emotionally prepared for this conversation. She’s used to Darcy, but the extra S.H.I.E.L.D. layer is a little frightening. Better though, to have someone like Darcy who always says what she means. Jane needs that kind of thing. She is only good with nuances that involve space radiation and advanced calculus.

"Right," Jane says and locks herself in the bathroom.

Tromsø in March is not as cold as Jane was expecting from the words "Arctic Circle" but still too cold for a Californian transplant to New Mexico. The temperature may only be negative on the Celsius scale, but the outdoors are still terrifying because of the ice. It covers everything. Inches thick on the sidewalks and the roads. The visibility, which is clear for most of the walk to the university, turns suddenly into a foggy wall of blowing snow, lined by six foot high drifts at each side of the road.

The snow shrouds everyone they pass in anonymity, hidden by blowing white flakes and by hoods and scarves. The surface of the road is made more treacherous by the honeycomb patterns dug by the tire chains on the buses. Jane can tell they've left the realm of the tourist because she and Darcy are the only people sliding around like idiots on the snow-covered ice. Everybody else is Norwegian, and – Jane notices with deep jealously – they've got spikes strapped to the soles of their shoes.

"I want those," Jane says, hands clutched around Darcy's forearm as her left foot makes a bid for freedom like a speedskater on the curve.

"Coolzies," Darcy says easily. _How does she do that_ , Jane thinks. "We’ve got an expense account. Safety first."

The physics and astronomy building emerges from the swirling snow like an actress parting the curtains on a stage. They walk through the doors in a place that is warm and quiet and clear. Jane pulls back her hood, disoriented to no longer be fighting for every step. Next to her, a brightly colored posters shows a small rocket being launched into the upper atmosphere where solar winds and magnetic fields interact to form auroras. Jane wonders if the locals are disdainful of the northern lights or if it's just part of the scenery to them.

A gray-haired professor with a nose like an axe blade comes out to let them into Jane's lab. Jane's surprised that it's _her_ lab. She tries to ask about the project, about who she's sharing it with, about which department owns it, but the professor tells her in a thick Norwegian accent that it's hers and hands over the keys.

Jane stares at them, the metal of the keys cold against her hands. The door is a smooth surface of blonde wood. It matches the eco-minimalist feel of the building, a lot of stainless steel and pale wood and white wash on the inside, red siding on the outside. It's like seeing IKEA in its native habitat. IKEA's Swedish, she thinks, but from the distant perspective of California, the similarities are more striking than the differences.

She turns the key in the lock with a muted _clunk._ The walls have posters from introductory physics. Like this was a classroom that just found out recently it was Jane's lab.

Jane's equipment is here, sort of.

"Hey, I remember you," Darcy says fondly, running her hands over the Laurentzian spectralizer. Her tone of voice is that of Humphrey Bogart saying _here's looking at you, kid_. Like she believes the spectralizer is a brave little toaster that can do great things.

All of these equipment are copies of Jane's machines; which is to say, they _aren't_ Jane's machines. The Minkowski-spacetime simulator is sitting in the corner, but there's no lightly-frosted Argon canister hissing softly next to it, which means there's no plasma containment, which means it's never going to reach the vacuum energies necessary for simulation. The row of satellite dishes leaning against the wall look nicer than the ones Jane set up all over her roof in Puente Antiguo, but they aren’t doing anybody any good sitting on the floor like that.

"Jane, look, it's your prom date," Darcy says because Jane has told too many stories while drunk. Darcy is standing over a Frankenstein collective of computer towers and bundled wires: Jane's DIY one-and-a-half teraflop supercomputer or the Best Way to Run Numerical Simulations in the Middle of Nowhere. It’s also good for When You Want to the Dean to Stop Stealing Your Research.

Jane walks a complete circle around it, her steps turning from cautious to stompy as the snow and cold fade into distant memory. Her brain's locking onto her changeling replacement equipment the way missiles lock onto heat signatures. For instance, this isn't Jane's Prom Date, but it's a pretty good imitation. Someone at S.H.I.E.L.D. took very good, very creepy notes.

"They aren't connected," Jane says, having walked a complete circuit around Prom Date 2.0 without stepping over a single wire between it and the rest of her monster children. Her voice sounds airy and vague, but that's because Jane's gone internal. Inside she's fast coming up on furious, but external communication won't show that for a while yet. Facial expressions and speech are low priority. Commands filter out slowly, her lips barely form the words.

"Maybe it's wi-fi," Darcy says. She's produced a stick of jerky from somewhere and is scrolling through the campus wi-fi networks, her butt on the lecturer's desk, legs crossed at the ankles and swinging. She's familiar with the Jane stimulus-absorption procedure (high flux in, barely nonzero flux out).

"You can't run terabytes of data through wi-fi unless you – unless you want to wait until you’re – _Asgardians_ can run quantum simulations over wi-fi," Jane says, and then she snaps out of the zone.

She's just said Asgardian voluntarily, and that takes Jane out of the place where she is what she's meant to be: a Ferrari of science, smoothly, brutally effective and at peace driving 230 mph towards the future. Now Jane's wrenched back into that place where she notices the people and the society around her, a network of human beings continuously lobbing baffling but powerful cues in her direction. The kind of place where Jane thinks, _You can't meet people in a lab_ , and it sounds like her mom _._

Well, Mom, Jane will make it a point to run over a few more gorgeous, tall, Nordic men while she's here. Okay?

Jane runs her hands through her hair. "Give me the project bio."

Darcy hands over her StarkTab. It says all the things it said when Jane accepted the fully-funded, six month position. Jane had known it was S.H.I.E.L.D. approved – she understands that she touched the pecs of a god-like alien and now she has babysitters – but she'd thought it was a real research group. Now she's here in a lab that was clearly a classroom yesterday, surrounded by disturbing caricatures of her own jury-rigged equipment and academic neighbors who seem both resentful and confused by her presence. 

Jane takes another look at the project bio and realizes that _Schwarzchild Anomalies in Far Exosphere_ spells S.A.F.E.

Jane puts the tablet down quietly and puts one hand over the other on her forehead, shuts her eyes and breathes through clenched teeth. It’s S.H.I.E.L.D. It’s S.H.I.E.L.D. all the way down.

"Why," Jane says with her eyes closed, "why are we here."

"Because I'm unemployed, and you're science." Darcy peels strings of dried flesh from the jerky, dangling them over her mouth like worms for a baby bird.

Jane grabs Darcy's wrist. "I don't want to be here anymore."

Darcy's unfazed. It's why they work. "You want to go back to the hotel?" 

"No," Jane says stupidly. She stares blankly at a diagram of electron orbitals hanging on the wall. Where else is there to go?

Darcy pats her arm. "It's cool. I got this."

**

Jane’s wearing a snowsuit with the legs and sleeves rolled up because Norwegians don’t come in Jane’s size. Her ears are warm under one of those Russian-style fur hats, the ear flaps tied under her chin. 

There are fifty dogs barking and howling and jumping around her, each of them wearing little blue harnesses like a canine parachute platoon. The sleds jerk forward each time the dogs jump towards the snow-covered field. They only thing holding them back are nylon ropes half-as-thick as Jane's wrists tied the pale birch trees that clutter the edge of the field.

"Oh my god, what," Jane says.

"This is gonna be great," Darcy says. "I'll drive."

**

The guide wasn’t kidding; the dogs want to run, and the wind is making Jane’s eyes water until she squints and sees only white.

This isn't the sort of person she is - the wild dogsled adventure kind. She knows that. Jane understands uncertainty too well to be impulsive with imprecise data. People are all about errors bars, which is a roundabout way of saying Jane only yells about science -- the only space where right and wrong is a real measurable thing. 

Darcy's the opposite kind of person that Jane is. Cavalier and confident and with a knack for making 'total lack of life direction' seem like a clear purpose. Normally in Jane's lab, this means Jane gets to push Darcy around until she’s facing a direction useful to Jane. 

It also means there’s someone in the lab who remembers to seek out food at meal times. 

As long as Darcy is with her, Jane never has to speak to another human stranger if she doesn't want to. Though Darcy's differing age and interests mean that in order to take advantage of Darcy the willing human-go-between, Jane has to be not-speaking to human strangers that are young, male, and in bars. This is probably how Darcy heard that story about Jane's prom date.

Jane doesn't want to go back to the hotel room after the dogsled tour. She also feels stupid about saying that, but it turns out she doesn't have to. This is Tromsø on the tail end of the Northern Lights tourist season, and after-dark is when the tourism really starts. Jane doesn't have to say a word before Darcy has her buckled into the first row of a 15 passenger van, her feet competing for space with a giant tupperware of Norwegian cake (indistinguishable from Californian Betty Crocker box cake) and thermoses of coffee and cocoa.

"I have a type," Jane finds herself babbling to Darcy as the bus heads away from the light pollution of Tromsø. She never talks about this. She hasn't talked about this to anybody. She's not even really talking about it now, carefully avoiding the words _Thor_ or _Asgard_. But S.H.I.E.L.D.’s in her life again, instead of just the periphery, and Jane’s not important enough for that by herself. "I have a type."

Which maybe makes her a terrible feminist because she has a clear yearning for a giant man-shaped person to stand between her and humankind so she can get shit done. He could drive for her -- she'd love not driving, ever -- he could cook, he could shop for her, he could –

"Jane," Darcy says, choking, "those are not manly things. Those are not things that guys do -- you know, traditionally."

Jane frowns. "Guys have done that for me."

Darcy lets out a strangled sound that sounds more joyful than Jane’s ideal sympathetic audience. "Jane, Jane, dudes don't go shopping for you because it's a social norm." She leans down as the bus bounces over icy highways to steal a piece of cake. The hardened frosting falls off, and Darcy eats it separately in three happy bites. Licking her fingers, she grins at Jane. "Oh man, this is amazeballs. You're a ten and never knew it."

"I’m not a -- " Jane flushes, but she can’t finish. She’s trying not to re-examine most of grad school – most of her grad school _professors_ – in this new light. It's the formative moments that matter, isn't it. Jane was already Jane by the time her fellow (90% male) grad students started giving her their supercomputer time just because she asked for it.

Jane turns to the cold, dark window of the van. "Not recently,” she mutters. “Not on Prom night."

“But on Thursday, maybe,” Darcy says around her cake. 

**

Jane sleeps until almost noon and wakes up feeling trapped but not panicked. 

She has one new text on her phone, a link to a photo in front of the Northern Lights. It's a low angle shot, Darcy and Jane illuminated by a brief flashlight beam during the long exposure. The sky above them is streaked with pale green stripes through a gap in the clouds -- the artistic expression of collisions between atoms in the upper atmosphere with the ionized plasma of the solar wind. Jane's expression is pinched from cold or worry while Darcy holds her hands up behind Jane's head turning her into a reindeer.

Sometimes Jane can't figure out if Darcy actually likes working for Jane or if Jane is just a human-sized app, competing with Candy Crush or the NYT crossword for Darcy’s attention. In the two years she’s known Darcy, Jane has never seen any indication that Darcy ever finds life difficult or complicated. Jane would put it down to youth, but she remembers what she was like ten years ago, and Darcy was not it.

Jane gets dressed. She's used to limited options. That's life. That's literally what having a budget means. She wants to go back to the lab and see if her machine copies are working copies or if they're a charade. If the latter, then Jane will start to invest some real anxiety in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s purpose putting her here.

Before they leave, Jane tries to look at the photo of her and Darcy again, but it's gone. Other photos are still up; it's just the Darcy and Jane photos that are missing. Jane's skin crawls.

Darcy’s leaning against the wall outside, both thumbs on the screen of her phone. Without looking up, she asks, “Science?”

“I don’t know,” Jane says. She feels like her bones are rattling around inside her skin, blurring out her focus. _What is S.A.F.E.?_

Darcy’s mouth turns down in a little moue of disappointment. “But science is your thing.”

Jane’s pacing and patting her pockets: the nervous, last-minute inventory check of all absent-minded people. When she looks up, Darcy’s not looking at her phone; she’s looking at Jane with a furrow in her forehead. Jane stares at her, baffled, until Darcy shrugs it off, thumbing to another app on her phone. She says, “We kinda checked the big ones off already, but there’s snowshoeing.”

Jane blinks at her. “What? No, no, it’s fine. We need to go to the lab.”

“Cool,” Darcy drawls, once again unconcerned, but she links the arm not holding her phone through Jane’s as they step out into the cold. 

**

There’s a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent in Jane’s lab. She’s tall, but everybody is compared to Jane and Darcy.

Before they left, Jane called the grumpy professor next door to make sure there was nobody here, and she bought the connector cables she needs with cash instead of with Darcy’s company card. Now she feels stupid for thinking her amateur efforts would do anything. She’s definitely sending S.H.I.E.L.D. the bill. Norway is expensive.

“Hello,” says the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent in a light Norwegian accent, “My name is Kari Nilsen. I’m from the oversight committee?”

“Me too,” Darcy says.

Ms. Nilsen gives Darcy a politely confused look. Jane ignores her, heading for Prom Date 2.0, the lonely island. Nilsen trails her: “I have the name of the shipping company if something has been damaged or is missing.”

The agent watches Jane hook up her equipment. Jane can’t focus, can’t zone her out. Maybe Jane trusts these people to back up Thor and to object to the wholesale destruction of a small town, but none of that means they need to leave Jane's life or her life work intact. On a practical level, they can hurt Jane badly, and they don't need to be bad people to do it. They could be saving the world.

“This is Jane,” Darcy says. “She's dating your thunder god.” 

Nilsen lifts both eyebrows. “I’m Lutheran. We're very low on pagans presently.” 

“Not really dating,” Jane says, though, well, who's to say differently. She should be like Darcy and play her advantage to the hilt. Jane’s fingers fall off of the cords she’s connecting to the back of her Prom Date, and she sits back on her heels, dropping her chin onto her crossed arms. 

Jane just wants to know how the universe works. She’s a thinker. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s a doer that wants to use Jane’s thinking to do their doing. They’re hanging around Jane the way R&D departments hang around NASA hoping for more velcro and memory foam and scratch resistant lenses. 

“I’m a ten,” Jane tells herself, and you know, that’s the thing. The 1 to 10 scale measures what matters to people on the outside looking in, but what it measures is totally invisible to the person on the inside looking out. It’s the same with her research. Jane’s a perfect ten to secret government agencies, too.

**

“You’re Norwegian,” Jane says, aware she’s basically petting her beer glass. If it were a bottle, she’d be peeling the label. That’s alright; Jane doesn’t have to appear chill. She has Darcy, the impenetrable wall of youthful ennui.

“Yes,” Ms. Nilsen says. “From Tromsø.”

“And not a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent,” says Jane.

“No.” Ms. Nilsen -- who is absolutely a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent -- lets a baffled expression cross her face.”I told you, I am a part of your oversight committee from the Norwegian government.”

“What are you doing all the way up here?” Jane says, eyes narrow.

Ms. Nilsen laughs a little in surprise. “Half the people in Tromsø are employed by the government, Dr. Foster. It’s the city’s largest employer.” 

Jane opens her mouth but has nothing to say.

“It gets crazy dark here, huh,” Darcy says, scooping into a plate of nachos that seem to involve more fish than Jane is used to. “Does that suck?”

“A little bit. We use special lamps for vitamin D.” Ms. Nilsen sighs patiently: _Americans_. “Fifteen minutes in the morning.”

“Nice,” Darcy says, chin on her hand and her half-lidded stare unblinking. Jane watches Ms. Nilsen eye Darcy uncertainly, and thinks, _Yes_ , with the kind of proprietary satisfaction that reminds her of watching hockey with her dad, cheering when the Sharks scored.

**

“Find anything yet?” 

Jane and Darcy are across the street in the basement of the University’s public science museum, surrounded by children doing their best to break the interactive exhibits. Darcy’s stuck on the one about reaction times. She’s not leaving until she’s caught every pipe before they hit the floor. 

“Zilch,” Jane says, sitting on a stool nearby at a display of puzzles and mindbenders, reading a two inch thick report about Norwegian government research funding. _Schwarzchild Anomalies in the Far Exosphere_ isn’t anywhere in it.

“That’s kinda sloppy, huh.”

Jane props her cheek on her hand and lets her head sink into it. “It’ll probably be in there tomorrow.”

“Do you think they’ll just hack the online copy or will Agent Nilsen sneak into your room? Better dogear the pages in the Fibonacci sequence or something.”

Jane just shakes her head.

“You really don’t want to go to the lab?” Darcy asks. 

“No,” Jane says.

“We kept doing science before, even when they took my ipod. Mooks.”

“What for?” Jane says. “We already know Asgard is out there. And Darcy,” Jane puts the heavy report down on her lap, her throating closing up, “why -- why is it called _S.A.F.E.?”_

“What?”

“They sent the two of us to a remote location for a fake project and the most important thing about it was that it’s _safe?_ ”

Darcy turns around inside the reaction time exhibit. Behind her a padded yellow baton falls from it’s magnetic hook, but Darcy doesn’t catch it. It rolls under the puzzle table next to Jane.

“We’re not important enough to hide by ourselves," Jane says. "The only thing about us that’s important like that -- ”

“ -- are space aliens. So shouldn’t we _definitely_ be doing science?”

“Wormhole astrophysics didn't put us in witness protection. Hiding us means someone wants to use us or to _hurt_ us.”

Darcy shapes a rainbow out with her hands. “What about the Lucky Charms highway?”

“If S.H.I.E.L.D. needed us to find the Einstein-Rosen bridge, they would have just asked. We’re here because of our political capital, not because of what we can do.” Jane waves a hand around the room as though she’s gesturing at her dead equipment instead of an afternoon crowd of children and their caretakers.

“Jeez,” Darcy says, looking around the room. Jane gets it -- it's an elaborate effort to just to get Jane out of the way. Jane's been writing grant proposals for a decade, and everywhere she looks she sees the money S.H.I.E.L.D. spent to set this up. Up to and including Nilsen's salary and expenses. It's a reminder that contact with Asgard is about more than scientific discovery. 

“Thor’s the heir to a unbelievably wealthy and technologically advanced planet, and he once said he liked me a little.” Jane shakes her head bleakly. “Compared to that, literally nothing else about me matters.”

Darcy sits down next to Jane and starts playing with the rope-and-ring puzzle attached to the table. “Sucks.”

Jane laughs and puts a hand over face. “Yeah.”

Darcy fiddles with the fraying ends of her over-long sleeves. After a moment, she says, “Nothing else matters to other people, you mean.” Jane gives her a quizzical look. Darcy makes the facial equivalent of a shrug, one side of her mouth twisting up. “I mean, you and your vulcan mind-meld with weird blinky physics machines hasn’t changed. It’s just other people.”

“Powerful people,” Jane says.

“Yeah.” Darcy shrugs. After a moment, she adds uncertainly, “I’ve got your back, right?”

“Yes,” Jane says. “I mean -- yes.”

“I’d count weird hats in Central Park all day if they paid me for it,” Darcy says. “But there’s people all over who really, really _want_ to -- do stuff. Read stuff, learn stuff, change stuff. I don’t really get it, but I like hanging with those peeps. It’s like they’ve got extra batteries somewhere I don’t have.”

Jane points at herself.

Darcy purses her lips and lifts her eyebrows. Her expression says, _Oh, yeah, definitely._ “You? Have got like ten extra batteries and a super determined hamster. So, just, why don’t we go fix your lab babies for no reason except for the shits? It’s not like you needed a better reason before this.”

“I’m a perfect ten powered by intestinal hamsters,” Jane says.

Darcy lifts one shoulder, her eyes on the ceiling. “Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.”

Jane smiles.

“Dr. Foster,” someone says, so professional and flat that Jane doesn’t recognize Ms. Nilsen until she looks up. Ms. Nilsen’s stance is stiff, and her expression is -- not angry but lacking any of the offered connection that she’d worn when she’d been trying to get Jane to trust her. 

“Um,” Jane manages, cold shivering across her bones.

“She’s definitely a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent,” Darcy says under her breath. ”It's like they took an office poll of what everybody thought Norwegians looked like, and the lowest common denominator was ‘blonde’.”

“There’s something you’d like to see,” Agent Ms. Kari Nilsen says. 

Jane grabs Darcy’s elbow and drags her along behind. They follow Nilsen up the stairs and through a door marked _staff only_. Inside, they come across a silent tableau. There are desks and storage spaces of carefully marked clear bins with exhibit supplies. The museum staff has left it all behind to circle around the TV in the corner, faces gone slack with surprise. One of them has a hand over his mouth. Another says something softly in Norwegian and puts her hand on her co-worker’s arm. 

They don’t look up until Nilsen is standing right behind them, and when they do, they part, automatically welcoming Jane and Darcy and Nilsen into the circle. There is a shell-shocked acceptance of their presence -- like witnesses turning to each other in the wake of a disaster. 

On the television screen, aliens are attacking New York.


End file.
